


Dr. Kent

by KorinHolod



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU (Comics), ER (TV 1994)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Hospitals, Psychology, Superheroes, Translation, Translation from Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorinHolod/pseuds/KorinHolod
Summary: It all began from one simple accidental phrase in the Internet. Something like that: "With his X-Ray vision and powers Clark Kent could be a brilliant doctor and save lives. But no, the world needs another journalist!"And what if everything could be a little different? What if the boy from Krypton would actually become a doctor?





	Dr. Kent

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive my mistakes (and welcome to correct them, if you please) for I'm not a native speaker.

 

 

_Chicago. Central Hospital of the Eastern District. 2000. 7:35 p.m. Monday._

“He’s coding! We’re losing him!”

Every time is like _this_. Every time is like the first time, so the mentor said. The great — no-one can say another word — Dr. Green. He was a heaven-born doctor, and the other doctors couldn’t save him, including his own student. The brain tumor had put down its roots too deep for any forces, either human or non-human ones, could do something with it. If the research had began a few years, maybe a year earlier, there could be a chance, but… But. A sinister conjunction, often with suspension points, and some truth afterwards. Or a simple statement of fact. Something real.

“I could have, but…” “We could have saved him, but…” “I wish I had, but…”

Dr. Green passed away and left his legacy of two dozen interns, three-four doctors, and an immense lot of grief and memories. And they, these memories, increased by acquired knowledge, have been helping to act, and to act in the right way. To defeat The One that will come to everyone, one way or another. Just not now.

“Oxygen. Pressure. Scalpel. Dilator. Forceps. Tamponade. Working open-chest, get the defibrillator ready.”

 _One. Two. Three. Four. The left ventricle. I see it. Sixty-five a minute, optimum. Live, you bastard. Live!_

The heart unwillingly begins to contract under his fingers on its own.

“Set aside the defib. There’s the rhythm. Go on!”

Short phrases. Short thoughts. Nothing in excess, as another one great mentor said, this time a long departed man of art. Intensive care is like a creation of a statue: these processes both have nothing in excess, and if there is something, it would be cut off with a ruthless blade of a doctor’s mind; and the Occam’s razor would seem an ancient ax back, when compared to it.

“The pulse is fine. The internal hemorrhage is eliminated. Let’s close him and get him upstairs. Good work, guys.”

You could— you _must_ encourage your team for what they’ve done. Even if it was you who started the heart, it was you who saved this stranger, but you couldn’t have made it without them. Yes, in the very deed it isn’t true; and yes, you alone could manage the half of the afflicted in this hospital. But somewhere deep inside you know how it would work out. And you’re grateful to these people who manage some things that elude your attention in the main battle of your life. In the battle with Death.

“The surgery. Now! I will finish myself.”

“This is your second daily duty in the row.” As always, Dr. Benton tries to help his fellow-man without missing his own profit. His status and his study hinge on the amount of his surgeries. _He’s right, however. I shouldn’t push it._

“Right you are. See your patient.”

Age. Damage. Background. Damage conditions. This could be important, too. That’s it. You could relax. Peter is an excellent surgeon and he know his stuff; and you’ve given him more than anyone could.

The second daily duty. Even you begin to get tired because of this giant tension. To bed. To bed immediately…

“Dr. Kent’s departed to rest!”

“Roger!”

The common joke, the common answer. Neither of it bothers, though…

 

An emergency doctor. Something of a surgeon, quite a bit of a pediatrician, very much of a traumatologist and always a therapist. Ah yes, don’t forget about a diagnostician. That’s all very fine at the silver screen where an urgent expert always can come within several spare minutes. The real life sometimes can’t give you even seconds. Such important, such necessary seconds when you must decide and act. Hence the word _emergency_. And even if you’re cheating and using such powers that no human can achieve, you are no god. You’re a doctor.

Dr. Kent screwed up his face in his sleep and rolled over. He was sleeping in a small laboratory which was wearing a famous name of an office. Actually, it was a common lab, but only for cancers tests, that’s why it was usually empty at nights. Despite that fact, or maybe courtesy of it, Dr. Kent spent here most of his time, including breaks and weekends. His scientific research was most privy to the oncological diseases, to their development and treatment. Clark, and that was the name given him by his parents, was taken by the idea of defeating cancer. Once and for all. For the first time, this idea was given him by his father, a simple farmer who realized at one point that his foster-son was destined with a great future.

Dr. Kent always remembered this first conversation about his powers, and this episode of his life often haunted his dreams.

 

 _Outskirts of Smallville. 1974. 8:05 p.m. Saturday._

“You’re special, Clark,” Jonathan Kent said slowly as he, with interest and without slightest fear, examined his wrench tied in a knot and just taken out of hands of a seven-year-old boy. “You’re different, and you have to get used to it and to hide it. Sorry about that.”

They were in the barn; it was something between a garage and a workshop, where the future Dr. Kent often went Sodom and Gomorrah, in the words of his mother. Jonathan got his seat cozily on the heaped tractor tires, and Clark stood opposite of him, cap in hand. However, his punishment would seem to be put on hold. An interesting conversation lied ahead. As always, when his father’s eyes acquired some cunning spark of sorts.

“Why?” Little Clark often asked this question like any other boy of his age. Jonathan raised his eyebrows, pulled a blank face, and Clark specified obediently, “Why hide it? And why am I special, too?”

“As is usual in the fairy-tales, I’ll start with the last.” Jonathan mashed a cigarette in his fingers, but didn’t lit up: it’s no good for the lad to get used to smoke. “So you say, we’ve already told you where do you come from.”

“From the sky”, the boy nodded.

“Yep. That is why you’re special. So you know, like your mother says, you were a gift from God for us. That means your specialty is also grace. Maybe you will find out later what its nature is, maybe not; that’s a very long shot. And why you should hide it, that’s more tricky, it is. Remember when you saw a stag-beetle for the first time?

“Uh huh.”

“No _uh-huhs_ , but _yes_. Or else why do you read your smart books?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“There now. So you say, when you saw it, what was with you then?”

“I—” Clark paused for one second. “I got scared.”

“Theeere you go,” his father sighed with satisfaction. “And why?”

“Well… it was creepy. A big one. It was moving. I never saw anything like this before.”

Jonathan leaned forward and gave his son a tough smack on the shoulder.

“You nicked it, son. You know, people are such— God’s creatures, they fear anything that they see for the first time and don’t understand. As for me, it beats me how you managed to bend the wrench like this.”

“So you’re afraid, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” his father nodded adultly. “But not of you. I’m afraid how you’re gonna drive in a nail with such a damn power. Not to mention milking our cows.”

Clark giggled, Jonathan chuckled back. Kent Jr. caught up, and rolling boyish laughter echoed in the barn for a few seconds. When he recovered breath, he asked a new question immediately, “So people will fear me, won’t they?”

“Yes, they will. Because they don’t know who you are.”

“So I must hide,” the quick child concluded. “But how?”

The farmer chuckled, rubbed his nasal bridge, and then began to think out loud in a roundabout way, after his habit.

“Well, look at that. You have many of your powers. You’re strong like two bulls, so you say, can see through the wall, can look at my guts. A pound to a penny, when you begin to grow up, you could do much more, right?”

“I guess.” Clark scratched his head, picturesque like an adult, and then he smiled. “Maybe I’ll begin to fly”.

“Maybe you will. There’s another question: what will you do with your damn power? Where d’you apply it to? Once I knew this pal—”

Jonathan cut off his words, stood up from his tires and beckoned his son outdoors: he wanted to smoke too badly.

They went out of the barn under the evening sky; on its fault-line, the sunset was fading and pretty setting off ears of wheat on the fields. Jonathan stretched out, grunted, took a few steps aside his son downwind, and began to smoke delightedly.

“Well then,” he continued as he chased the smoke with his broad horny palm, “once I knew this pal, Jones was his name. Now he’s moved somewhere else, but earlier he lived not far from us. He was not so different from other folks but one thing: he knew and repaired any machine. From radio and TV-sets to tractors. I went for him many times, and helped him, and learnt some things. But now I couldn’t even remember his name — either Ron or John… what about his last name, I kept it mind by chance; that’s it — not Jones, but Jonzz. He always received his bills for the false name, so he didn’t half swear, that’s why I remembered. He was a strange pal, he was, never talked about his past and his family, and then he vanished, plumb gone. Only an empty house remained. And his mug— well, his face, I can’t call it to mind much. But I remember his hands. How he polished plugs, how he worked with cutter, how he changed tires — up to every movement. That was his calling to repair machines, savvy?

“He wanted to hide, too. So it looks like, he was hiding behind his calling, right?” Clark was unusually thoughtful. “So it means, I need the same, behind my work— rolling myself up in it? Like in a cape. But what’s my calling?”

“Who knows?” Jonathan spit in his palm and stubbed on it. “When you grow older, so… I’ll tell you this much: you won’t make any good farmer. It’s not about strength, not even skills — I’ll teach you what’s proper, that’s for sure. There’s another thing here: you need habit, a bond with earth, with growing things… I don’t know. That’s too smart, that is, I wouldn’t say it till the cows come home. You’re a brainy kid, you need to hive some learnings.” He squinted at first stars, silver tacks on the roof of heaven which was darkening so fast. “Your destiny is very great, my boy. As great is your power, as is your fate. The key is not to waste it for nothing. Don’t wish your way to be easier and smoother. Easy roads, they— well, you know where they lead to. You’ve read the Holy Book, haven’t you? There are many things in the world that could make even your power look like a spit before them. Take diseases, for instance. Do you know about cancer?”

 

***

Clark could tell about his road one thing: it wasn’t simple. Terrible and awkward death of his father in a raging tornado had almost got him down. As he turned eighteen, young Kent left his orphaned home and assured his mother upon oath that he surely would help her even if with money. Martha didn’t restrain him: she saw that her son was confused and that would be better for him. She had only one parting please for him, and Clark remembered this please forever, not least because it repeated the words of his father almost letter for letter.

“Don’t waste yourself for nothing, son,” Martha said then. “Don’t lose everything your father managed to give you. He didn’t want for you to show your power to the world, and he knew you wanted to help people, had compassion for them, this compassion of strong people for weak people. But help could come in different ways.”

And Clark chose for himself for sure that he wouldn’t betray his father’s memory. Back then, on the way to Metropolis, after his mother’s words, he remembered that old conversation and decided to try himself in battle with diseases. Not for himself, for others. But first, there was a long journey to the high North ahead of him, a journey to his legacy…

Fifteen years passed since then. During the years in the Medical Institute of Metropolis, Kent tried to understand more than one dozen times how humans who didn’t have his abilities, who couldn’t keep awake for weeks with clarity of thought, how these humans were able to grasp this knowledge. Nothing could save him: neither endurance, nor absolute memory. He expected that textbooks learnt by heart would give him advantage, that X-ray vision and superhigh reaction would help him, that…

After another fail in the exam, and moreover, on the practicum, he clenched his teeth and said to himself, “No, Dad. I won’t seek the easy path.”

He learnt to shut off his unearthly abilities, to act like a human, to live like a human, to diagnose and to learn like a human. And he began to become good at it. Thoughtfulness and graduality appeared in his actions. And only then, a bit at a time, step by step, he began to let himself go again. To sustain with his powers the experience and knowledge he had achieved. But all the same, he made mistakes from time to time. And these mistakes happened to be fatal.

An attempt to diagnose lupus offhand was such a mistake; moreover, it was a selfish mistake. He just was very anxious to work with this rare illness. And the liver pathology he didn’t notice in the process almost led to the lethal outcome. _You were lucky back then, Clark. You saved him. But you might have not saved him._

An attempt of abdominal operation of a patient with a floating allergy was such a mistake. _Yes, who could have known that he would react on latex exactly at this moment. But you hopped to it, Clark, you decided that you’d seen it all, and you hastened._

The illness and death of Dr. Green, his first practical teacher who took under his wing one young specialist in the hospital of Chicago's Eastern District, was such a mistake.

There was a lot of such mistakes, and each one echoed with pain in his heart. But upon that, upon all this weight, they gave him experience. Sometimes it was bloody, shameful, unpleasant, scary, but it was experience.

During the first years, Clark wanted to give it all up, to go to the Ice Fortress which he discovered six months before the beginning of his medical study. Back there where his powers were almost immense, back there where Jor-El’s holographic image was waiting for him, back there where he was called— by a weakness. A weakness of spirit.

“Anyone with my strength can kick asses,” young Clark Kent said between teeth as he was dealing with urinalysis and changing diapers. “Anyone with my powers can fly,” he muttered as he covered for a burnt-out centrifuge with his arms. “Where is plasma?” someone yelled from behind the door, and he yelled back half-turned, “Right away!” — and the one who desperately needed this plasma was clinging to life on the operating table.

“I won’t follow the easy path,” gnashed the son of the planet Krypton as he was grimacing because of stench by cleansing the bowels of fecal masses. “I’ll handle this,” he whispered as he was literally and actually watching the mitosis of an carcinoma. No, maybe, he could have burnt this tumour with his heat vision, he could have become a god of healing, he could have cured — what, dozens of people? Hundreds of them? And what would become of him, of his abilities, and the most important, of his patients after all of it would have been reported to the military, FBI, other special forces?

Clark was waiting, watching, letting people die in order to understand how to destroy this disease forever without knotting this destruction only on himself.

Only once he allowed himself to yield. It appeared to him that some young professor of mathematics who gained Clark’s heart with an idea of a super speed engine, deserved to live against all the odds. Kent healed him, he destroyed his brain tumour, he used all his medical knowledge and performed this operation on the micronic level. Two months later, he found out that this professor had forever lost his interest in mathematics because of losing his abilities for it. This defeat almost crushed Kent, but it let him see: superpowers themselves weren’t able to help him in this fight. Only experience and knowledge, together with his capabilities.

 _Only that way and in no other!_

 

 _Chicago. Central Hospital of the Eastern District. 2000. 10:30 p.m. Monday._

The very same night when the son of two planets fell asleep in his “study” was fateful for many reasons. Firstly, the next morning Clark Kent would turn 33. Secondly, he was dreaming of a formula that in the following would be known to all the world as the serum K-118, or Panacea; it was a victory in his crusade against cancer. And thirdly, Dr. Kent had hardly written this formula down half-asleep before someone knocked at the lab’s window.

“Just a moment,” Clark responded without turning around. He put the last symbol down, got up, went to the window and opened it. On the fire ladder, in the pouring rain, there was a man in a strange costume. A flash of lightning snatched out of the darkness sharp perky ears, a mask that covered the most face, and a long black cape.

“You know who I am,” the man in the bat suit said with a low humming bass. Dr. Kent sighed.

“Yes, I know who you are, Bruce. And believe me, you could have come to me without so bombastic disguise. Shut off the voice modulator, get into the window and take off the mask. You wouldn’t deceive anyone in this lab.”

Clark went across the study, slightly opened the door and leaned out in the hall. On the reception nearby, two night shift nurses were giggling.

“Girls,” Kent called quietly in order not to disturb Dr. Ross who was peacefully sleeping on the gurney by the wall, “make the call that we have here a little accident and the second onco-lab is closed till morning.”

“Very well, Dr. Kent,” nurse Hathaway nodded knowingly and added instantly, “But we will wake you up if anything.”

“Thank you,” said Clark, shut the door and turned to his guest. He already managed not only to come inside and close the window but also to rid partially of his outfit. Bruce Wayne glanced the spare interior with his inspective grey eyes and fixed his gaze on the formal owner of this room.

“If you know who I am, you understand why I’ve come,” Batman said assertively.

“Obviously. You’ve come to recruit me.” Clark already knew too much both of the hero of Gotham and of the Justice League to have not expected this visit. Now, as before each surgery, he was taken by excitement and slight fear of mistake.

 _You were able to find me, Bruce. Let’s see if I’m able to convince you._

“Let’s keep names above titles.” Mr. Wayne smiled disarmingly. “After all, this is no place for a society gala.”

“Okay,” Clark responded in the same spirit. “Care for a drink? Except I have only diluted alcohol…”

Bruce jerked his eyebrow, laughed shortly and shrugged.

“Why not then? I’ve never received such an offer.”

“I’d abstain, if you don’t mind,” grinned the doctor as he took two bottles out of a pin up cabinet and skillfully mixed the alcohol with water in a medicine glass. “I’ll be on call afterwards. Obviously, alcohol has a very weak impact on me, but caution would do no harm.”

“You got it.” Wayne’s hand in the black glove deftly received the vessel and saluted his companion. “Cheers.”

Clark waited patiently till his quest dried his tears and recovered his breath, and offered, “Let’s get down to business?”

“Do let’s,” responded Batman gravel-voiced. “What an evil thing, there’s no need in any modulator.”

“That’s for sure.” Kent smiled. “So, you want to use me and my extraordinary abilities for the benefit of mankind.”

Wayne kept quiet for a while as he examined the tall, broad-shouldered doctor.

“I can read face and body language,” he said, “and therefore I understand at once: you refuse.”

Clark shook his head and in his turn examined his conversation partner in the way only he was capable of.

 _Multiple fractures including a serious spinal injury, scar tissue on arms, legs, buttock, chest and back, a battered heart, a removed spleen, two bowels surgeries… oh you butchers, who could have done something like this? I’d have been better. No kidding. The hero of Gotham would last no longer than a decade. Five-seven years more after that he would be able to support himself with the latest advances in technology and then he would turn into a complete wreck. And yet he’s no older than me._

“No, Bruce,” Clark broke into a broad and open smile, “I don’t intend to refuse. It’s worse. I want to recruit you myself.”

“It’s an interesting offer.” Mr. Wayne’s experience in business talks was equal to Mr. Kent’s experience in stitching. It took Bruce no more than a second to realize that his opponent had some long circumspect plan. “I’m curious of what you have to propose, Clark. I guess we know enough of each other. And we wouldn’t set up a demonstration combat. Talk to me.”

“Measuring strength with each other in a hospital is not the best way to secure the comfort of the patients. Especially regarding you and me. Let alone I understand perfectly: I don’t have a single chance in the open combat against such an experienced fighter as you. You have secured yourself twice. Particles of Kryptonite in gas grenades and in the missiles on the Batwing, am I right?”

A satisfied smile overspread Bruce’s face.

“Thrice, Mr. Kent. A sniper rifle on remote control, bullets with a Kryptonite-sprayed shell and core.”

“Bravo,” Clark nodded absolutely seriously. “If I began with a massacre, you’d handled it. But you and me decided to talk. Therefore I ask of you: leave your paranoia behind at least for ten minutes, disable the rifle and send the plane home. I feel a little uncomfortable being in the crosshairs.”

Batman delayed for one second, and then the fingers of his right hand ran over his left forearm touching the hidden sensors. Dr. Kent physically felt release of the tension that had been flooding the room since the moment Wayne arrived.

“Alright.” Bruce sat down on the couch. “I’ve made my move, now it’s your turn.”

Clark sat beside him and looked down on his palms.

“I believe you waste yourself for nothing, Bruce.” Wayne jerked up his head, ready to object, but Kent stopped him with a denying gesture. “Please, first listen to everything I’d like to say, and only then argue. Well, then, let’s judge from bare, almost medical facts. You’re one of the richest people in the world. Possessing, believe me, some unique physical skills. Your recovery after the spinal fracture is nothing less than a miracle. Your intellect is over the top of all bounds available. The greatest detective of today is quite a deserved title. Besides all that, you know technology, physiognomy, psychology and chemistry; you’re an experienced martial artist and furthermore, you have an astonishing code of honor and internal moral values. Did I miss anything?”

“No.” Batman screwed his face. “What is all of this for? Or you, like my butler, are going to explain to me that crime fighting on the streets is to small for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, I will,” Clark nodded. “I will because you’re capable for so much more. Being Bruce Wayne—” He paused, waited for a sceptical expression on his vis-a-vis’ face, and finished, “And being Batman, too.”

Bruce braced himself up as if he wanted to jump, and looked at the doctor tentatively.

“Would you like to explain?”

“With pleasure.” Clark moved his shoulders. “Let’s first talk about your alter ego that scares the daylights out of Gotham’s scum. Where did you learn your current fighter skills?”

“In Nanda Parbat. It’s a hidden monastery—”

“I know. And I can guess what I don’t know. So, in Nanda Parbat you’ve become the one you’ve become. The Batman. The nightmare of those who offend against the law…” Kent paused again for a moment. “A phagocyte.”

A good deal of thought reflected on Wayne’s face. He obviously never saw himself from that point of view.

“You certainly know what phagocytes are, so I’ll focus on the most important thing,” said Clark. “There are many of them, Bruce. Clearly, one cell fights the disease, and you’re worth a hundred of such cells, even a thousand; but the human body contains millions of them. Billons. You’ve already become a symbol of honor and incorruptibility. You’re already a Knight, even if the Dark one, as they say, but— Who doesn’t allow you to teach your followers?”

“I don’t want to—” Wayne started, but Clark cut him short.

“You don’t want to take responsibility. After the absurd death of one — just one! — apprentice you refuse hundreds of them to get the chance to improve themselves and make the world a better place. It would be absolutely not necessary for them to hide their faces. They would learn to be honest, brave and strong as only you could teach; to stand up against any skunk who broke the law and to support that law with it. Why don't your apprentices work in GCPD, Bruce? I can answer that. Because you’re afraid. Afraid of making a mistake, afraid of placing a bet on a wrong person, afraid of betrayal. But I have an answer for that, too. No-one forces you to get a hundred of people at once in training. Start small. With a dozen. Your fellows-in-arms are by your side, your friends, your Justice League. Everything you wouldn’t notice, they will and suppress. You’re leading the way, Batman, but this is not enough. What did I say wrong?”

“Nothing,” Wayne responded sullenly. Not once has anyone cut him down to size _like this_. Perhaps but Alfred, but he was a loyal servant and didn’t let himself to criticize his master outright except in the most crisis situations.

Clark smiled.

“This is merely a top of the iceberg. Consider that in this operation, I barely dissected the skin covering. Let’s proceed to the resection of muscular tissue — to serious matters. I’m well aware of the corruption of police and politicians, both in Gotham and all over the world. But you do have your men everywhere, don’t you? Why is Gordon still a commissioner? Why isn’t he the mayor of Gotham? You can bankroll his campaign. You know how to negotiate and convince, if not with words then with dollars. Why?”

“Because everyone will know: Gordon is a puppet mayor of Wayne,” Bruce reacted hotly. “Then why would I be better than Falcone, for example?”

“Because you are better. And James is better than that puppet who governs your city now. Or you don’t trust the commissioner, do you?”

“I would trust him with my life—”

“Then what the hell, Batman? What the devil do you allow those bastards to sling shit at everyone around them? Or you, with all your experience, wouldn’t be smart enough to bankroll Gordon through the fifth parties so nobody would smell a rat? If you’re so worried about public opinion. For that matter, you certainly have the thickest wallet in the States, but you’re not the only one. There’s Oliver Queen, there’s Ray Palmer, there are Chinese and Russians which you’ve been doing business with. Why do you use their power and finances in favor of only one grim figure in mask and cape?”

“Not only one—”

“Okay, you can gather a dozen of you. That means, you phagocytes, blankety blank you over the slip yoke!” Without thinking, Clark changed his speech to the “country” one, which he seemed to have grown unaccostumed to long ago. “Bruce, bugger you all, you can do more and better!”

“And what about you?” asked Wayne calmly as he already pulled himself together. Kent’s words stang but they were true; Bruce were reasonable enough to understand that. But he wasn't able not fight for his opinion. “You, superhuman, who’s able to destroy a disease with a move of your finger, are sitting here, for more than a modest salary, and— what are you dealing with?”

Clark’s only answer was to stand up, take a piece of paper from the table and offered it to Bruce.

“I’ve been working on _this_. You’re right, I can defeat a disease with a touch, but only for one man. This is a formula for the cure that would heal hundreds of thousands people if someone takes the trouble to implement it. And my higgledy-piggledy calculations are only the beginning. Cancer is not the deadliest enemy of mankind. Alzheimer. HIV.” Clark clenched his teeth as he remembered the kind and wrinkled face of his mother, and said between them, “Anility. I fight everything above and other scores of diseases in addition. I want this world to live, Bruce, to live as long as possible, to be healthy and happy. And because of that — yes. I reject your offer to enter the League. But I offer you in return: join my team. And lead the way for everyone else. I already told you, you know how to convince. My idea is simple: you can provide justice only in a healthy world. And our world is sick. I don’t want to clean the blood of twelve-years-old boys from drugs anymore and to close ruptures by raped girls of the same age. The mankind needs a cure, and we are its formula.”

“Do you suggest taking the world on a short leash and leading it to happiness?” Wayne asked calmly as he examined the formula on the paper. Clark hacked the air with his palm.

“No! I suggest doing everything in our powers and setting an example. The real example. Not everyone would be able to put on a cape and fight like you. But hundreds of people could fight criminals and judge them honestly. The very few would be able to diagnose illnesses like me. But thousands would be able to heal them when the cure is ready. No-one has such powers as the Justice League. But millions of people, inspired and taught by us, would be able to make the difference without hiding in shadows!” Clark kept quiet for a moment and finished, “By the way, I sincerely hope for my formula to get actually implemented in your laboratories. S.T.A.R. Labs have already twice rejected my survey.

“And what about our enemies?” said Bruce all the same, keeping his head down. “Luthor, Zoom… Joker?”

“We could get on the right side of everyone,” Dr. Kent said firmly. “We could find an ailment for every illness. As for your eternal rival… Not so long ago I’ve met one man. He is, as it was called before, a prestidigitator. Something of a wizard, something of a bastard… but the most important thing — he’s an amazing psychiatrist. His name is John. John Constantine. He’s an Englishman — an Irishman, more truly, — a great wise head; and now he’s going to move his practice to the U.S. I suppose you both would have plenty to talk about. Going by his works, he’s the second Freud. I mean his level, not the trend.”

“A _wizard_?”

“You are familiar with the lady named Zatara, aren’t you? He’s the same. Only stronger at some points.”

Bruce Wayne sighed quietly, rose from his seat, took a step forward and stared Clark Kent in the eye.

“I'm not used to trust people,” he said firmly.

“I’m not a human,” Clark responded with the same firmness. “But I intend to serve humanity. And I will not betray either you or your venture. The more especially as—” He grinned cunningly, and the country boy from the village of Smallville looked through this grin again. “The more especially as this is _our_ venture now, isn’t it?”

“I’ll speak with the League,” Batman answered cagily. “And no promises.”

“They will listen to you, Bruce. They will, and they will be right about it. And now tell me, why are you _really_ here? For recruiting, you could choose some more friendliness of the environment.” Wayne burst out laughing out loud, and Kent immediately gave him a weak dig with fist in the solar plexus. “Quiet, you fool. If nurses hear, they’d decide I’ve gone nuts.”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s your alcohol’s fault. I chilled out as if I was on a society gala. You’re right. I’ve come here with a specific case and forgot about it because of these conversations… Yesterday night my satellite caught a signal from beyond the borders of the Solar system. I’ll let you hear it but first I’ll ask. Among other information, the name _Zod_ was mentioned. General Zod, to be exact. Does it ring a bell?”

Dr. Kent rubbed his face, massaged his eyelids and grinned sadly.

“Oh yes. It rings a tremendous bell. The new age is coming, Mr. Wayne. And believe me, you and all the League are better be ready to it.”

 

 _Saturn’s orbit. The bridge of the intergalactic spacecraft “Suli”, the flagship of the Great Squadron. 2015. Earth time 12:33 p.m._

No-one expected a signal of communication. And the Admiral himself in the first place. The system 25-12-44 should have been the same as others that had bowed before the renewed might of Apokolips. Weak, undeveloped, hardly trying to touch the unbounded spaces of the Great Space Ocean, and under-populated. Nevertheless, a scarlet light on the controls was flashing in time with Admiral’s heartbeat, and it could mean only one thing: someone nearby caught the necessary frequency and wanted to say something. Well then, if they wish to talk…

The Admiral mentally touched the light and uttered the standard phrase for those who dared to call in the Great Squadron first.

“I am Darkseid, lord of Apokolips. Bow before me, or you will be downtrodden, for I am the dreadful doom for those who are disobedient.”

The echo of Admiral’s speech elaborated by the universal translator barely ceased to roar, and the speakers, obligingly formed by the AI of the ship, reproduced dry and abrupt phrases of a person who was used to give orders on the battlefield. And the power and depth of this voice were not far below from those of the leader of the Squadron.

“Welcome to the bounds of the United System, lord Darkseid. General of the Unified Interplanetary Defense Zod is speaking. I am authorized to inform you that after the first signs of aggression regarding each of our planets… You will be destroyed by the forces of the United Fleet of Earth, Mars and Venus. In this system, the last one is known as Neo-Krypton. If you wish to negotiate… Or intend to establish trading relations… We ask of you to send a shuttle with the representatives of your squadron for further negotiation. Thanks a lot for understanding. And I hope for the mutually beneficial cooperation.”

A pause for a second for Admiral to process the received message; then Zod continued. Now his intonations were colored with some ravenous overtones. “If you’re counting on our unconditional surrender… I’m afraid to disappoint you, Admiral. Neither humans, nor Martians, nor Neo-Kryptonians are ready to surrender our planets without a fight. You’re not first ones who desire to test our defensive capacity. Think.”

 

 _Earth. Central Hospital of Metropolis. Surgery. 2015. Earth time 12:37 p.m._

“Dr. Kent, prime minister insists on your attention.”

The voice of Yakiko, the hospital’s secretary, was trembling with hidden admiration: she was passing the request of one great man to another. Clark winced.

 _They’ve still got a lot to learn. But they are on the right track. Yakiko is not the first one and not the last one to worship dominant names. They’ll handle it. Now I know it for sure. But what does he want?_

“Olga, turn down the music. Gunilla, get the scalpel on the third effect level. Don’t be afraid, you can do it. Yaki, switch the call to the speakers in the second surgery.”

For some time there was only quiet humming of fog-laser scalpel in the room.

“Clark.” A thick low baritone flooded the surgery like a sea wave. And just as the wave, the character behind this voice was unstoppable and relentless. “They’re stalling for time. Seventy-five percent for an assault possibility. Could you—”

“I couldn’t, James!” Dr. Kent kept his eyes glued upon the screen where a silver-grey beam was isolating the tumour area. “I’m helping my student with a surgery of an immense complexity. And I’ve told you a hundred times: I’m done with wars.”

“No-one calls you to join the ranks of Union’s defenders.” Kent could hear minister Gordon smiling. “But I have some Fate-scanning data about hte state of health of the Admiral of our potential enemy. Surely, he isn’t human, but—”

“Fifteen minutes,” responded Clark. “Send it to my desktop so far. I’ll get in touch. And yes, ask Wayne to find out everything possible about their homeworld. I’ll give you some recommendations, and then—”

“Then we’re on our own. As always. I’ll tell him.”

Clark Kent, the medical consultant of the United System, a genius surgeon and diagnostician, turned down the comlink with one movement of his palm, and with a short gesture he smoothed his tie with an outlined white capital S, enclosed in a scarlet cross.

 _Thank you, Constantine; because of you I realized what this symbol could mean for real. Health **[1]**. So be it. Anyone who comes for help will receive it. And there’s no limit of these lonely children of all the worlds. Misunderstood, abandoned, mutilated… sick. How many were they? Ra’s al Ghul, who’s now the headmaster of the best martial arts school on our three planets. Bane, who’s now the chief of staff of interplanetary defense. Bruce Wayne, who’s now the mentor and leader of the special regiment for intelligence and counter espionage “The Bat”. Joker, now Scaramouch, the lifelong colonel and commander of the universal space troopers unit… They needed only one thing. Help._

 

The fog-laser scalpel finished working and handed the patient back to the attending surgeon. Dr. Kent switched the tool for the manual control, and smiled slightly.

“Olga, put on Vivaldi, “The Four Seasons”, “The Spring”, thank you. Gunilla, way to go. The tumour is practically eliminated. Now, sector four.” And he said softly to the unconscious body on the operating table, “You’re going to live, Mr. Svantesson. They are good reasons we’re the ones you’ve come to.”

 

 _Saturn’s orbit. The bridge of the intergalactic spacecraft “Suli”, the flagship of the Great Squadron. 2015. Earth time 1:25 p.m._

“Send the shuttle,” the Admiral said slowly; his glance was riveted on the text popped up on the screen sputtered on his eye. Each word of the Lord of Apokolips seemed to weigh a ton and pressed his subordinates into the floor. “We have something to talk about with them.”

 

A little craft, so little in comparison with the flagship of the Squadron, was detached from the board and took the course to the white-blue globule of the planet with the proud name of Earth. The world was prepared to the advent of a new era.

 

[1] Slainthe — “Health” (Gaelic).


End file.
